


A Rodent by any other Name

by Cirrocumulus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Pregnancy, Slight Canon Divergence, characters are added as they appear, descriptions of vomit, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirrocumulus/pseuds/Cirrocumulus
Summary: “Have you ever heard of what happens when you put a bunny and a guinea pig into a cage? Together?They die - because guinea pigs and rabbits don’t speak the same language.“Furuta ponders what animal he would be – he could be a snake, born and raised in a poisoned garden.Or maybe a clownfish, he is already a circus attraction for the underworld.Perhaps even a rodent, something that carries famine wherever it goes.Whatever it is, he may never understand her words.Still, he tries.





	A Rodent by any other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, I'm Cirro! I hope you enjoy my writing style. =)  
> If any of you are interested in reading not only fanfiction, but Tokyo Ghoul meta posts you can find me on tumblr under:  
> http://cirrocumulus-cloud.tumblr.com/

_There is nothing graceful about a pregnant woman vomiting._

It is a retching act that brings rancid, rough patches of pale colours back to life, those that should have never seen the light of day again. For people of her kind it consists of red ink, the sort that smells like iron and here she is tugging at herself as if she has chains for lungs.

But there are no ripped rounds of fresh flesh at her feet. She gurgles up grains and garlic, lettuce and leftover layers of cheap cheese. Stares at the soggy mess then as if it has the ability to wrestle a sob out of her and somehow, it does. It feels good to leave the poison behind when her entire being screams for other sources of meat and it takes all her willpower to push her teeth into her own arm. To stop whatever sob or scrap attempts to leave her for good.

 It is arguably an attempt met with mirth from the depths of her stomach, as the motion picks up once more, leads another bite outside and she keels over then, falls to her knees and attempts to bind her own tongue to a leash. Maybe the sobbing can stop, then, if her own ability to breathe words is wounded. So she bites down, feels the red ooze cloud the inside of her mouth and prays that it is enough to calm down the terror that shoots lightning up her body.

It doesn’t.

_There is nothing mesmerising about a pregnant woman vomiting._

But he cannot seem to push his gaze away, the ways his eyes are trained on her form admit to him being a predator, the keen kind. He is moth to flame, props up his chin with a hand like a painter would instruct to their nude model but it is her that seems vulnerable, now. Because she is the one bare before him, unaware of the shadow which he calls home and it is the darkness of the sky overhead, the roaring thunder that is her ghoulish noises that keeps his chuckle at bay. He isn’t here to sail the open sea, he stays stranded in his position; frozen, if you will, with a smile that stays etched even if the sky cracks.

The only colour is the mess before her and she lacks the brush to make anything out of it. It is scattered paint on a broken canvas, something that could fill a person with content but she lacks the frame to keep it in. There is no way for her to be human, but something about the way she tries anyhow makes her appear as a force of nature. Maybe that is the reason why he’s still trained on her smeared form, takes in all the bile and blood on her lips as if she is a forbidden apple worth putting into a garden to let its seeds grow - because the person growing inside of her may as well be worth more than Eden.

It is the kind of love he cannot comprehend and so he smiles still, even as the heartstrings in his chest cavity pump the red poison through his veins in an attempt to feign emotions because he can feel the liquid tether on its boiling point. He’s hot, sweaty, much less composed than the woman in front of him and yet still much more of a composer than she could ever hope to be. The way his teeth are bared must resemble the crumbling of a carefully set persona and it is the anger that glues him together akin to a shattered vase.

If only someone _loved_ him. If only someone would love _him_. If only someone _could_ love him.

The love of a mother, the love of a lover - he’s sure he’ll die without ever having experienced either of them. She holds both inside of her. Wraps pale arms around stained clothes and hugs with the strength of an animal; snuffs out the pain in her throat with a lullaby that only she knows the words to. He is too far away to listen, too far pulled into his own head to understand, too far gone to ever comprehend this. And yet he strains his ears, hopes to become a bunny while his smile is still lopsided.

But it falls before he ever catches a single tune. And that’s just fine, he’s grown up too much to appreciate fairytales and such stale stories. They are lies, laid out by lunatics that long for lands far beyond their worth. And he’s a fool for acknowledging that he read as many of them as he could get his hands on, once.

Not anymore. Now he is the one who rises to his feet like a staggering crow, somewhere between a murder or two. After all that is what they call an army of the patrons of Death and he has enough feathered fiends by his side to wear a scythe as tall as his ego. His moves are somewhere between a swagger and a stumble, not quite firm but forceful. And when he reaches her side he holds up a tissue, spotless if one were to ignore the splotch of dried blood in the corner that simply doesn’t wash out.

“A woman with a hearty appetite, I take it? You’ll be a wonderful mother to beautiful little bunnies.”

The snicker in his voice gets drowned out by her sniffles, but he does not particularly mind. She still snatches the tissue away. Holds it against her mouth, lets the overflowing bile get soaked up by the fabric.

“Furuta...” Words that should come out as hostile get dwarfed by the giant aura that he permeates, turn into the smoke of a snuffed out candle instead. Still she keeps her gaze trained on him, clutches the cloth in her hand tighter. This man should be dead, yet holds Death as a hostage in the palm of his hand.

Furuta laughs, then. Hearty, full, the exact opposite of what her empty stomach feels like. “Touka! Good to see you.”

A scoff of her rings through the loaded atmosphere of electricity and anxiety, paints the sky with yellow bolts.

“I was worried sick, you see. Rabbits die in isolation, you know?”

Touka folds in on herself, then, to clutch at the stomach that is yet small enough to hide the most obvious signs of her pregnancy away.  But the anger plastered onto her face like a mask stays, concrete courage on the body of a woman that weeps with shivers of malnutrition.

“It’s no wonder that you gurgled that back up. A salad should have been better, perhaps even a carrot to chew on? Point being, no rabbit should have to gnaw on a cheeseburger. The stuff will make you fat really quick.”

Furuta ponders what animal he would be – he could be a snake, born and raised in a poisoned garden. Or maybe a clownfish, he is already a circus attraction for the underworld. Perhaps even a rodent, something that carries famine wherever it goes.

 Touka spits, again; chokes on words before they can reach him. “...you know nothing.”

“I know more than enough. You and the guinea pig, you did what rabbits do best. But Touka, little rabbit, have you ever heard of what happens when you put a bunny and a guinea pig into a cage? Together?”

The woman before him remains silent, gaze suddenly far away; trained onto a monstrosity that forms the sky anew. Something out of this world and she cannot possibly feel more alienated. But then she is brought back into reality, this twisted form of peace and famine alike, clutches stomach and tissue like a lifeline. And the pavement gets coloured once more, an abstract art with no critic to review it. No one but him.

 

_There is nothing beautiful about a pregnant woman vomiting._

**“They die - because guinea pigs and rabbits don’t speak the same language. “**

**_But some part of him believes in the beauty of destruction._ **


End file.
